Tag: love

On the Surface of a Perforated Sphere

adnabilahLeave a comment

Over a glass of your gin and tonic and another one of sparkling lemon water of mine, we teased each other’s senses once again that evening. Casually and unpretentiously. But still, the kind of conversation that would intrude my mind for days or possibly more, partly because: 1. Your lazy accent had always been my strange sort of muse; 2. Your judgment towards socio-political facts had even been gone more boldly since the last time we had this kind of encounter—despite possible cause of simply different drinks you had; and 3. Your wavy edges of hair draping behind your trilby hat fit you like never before.

The other part was just because, it’s you and me again. Trying to befit our fortune and deal with the unfortunate consequences. Repeating the same cycle of melancholia, followed with acceptance, and then hunger for coming back.

Have we never learned anything?

Oh, we have. We always have. But we have also always decided to forget the lesson that we’re the sorts of variables that could never coexist altogether in any equation, no matter how much we always want to believe in possible new ploys to overthrow that prime issue of our affinity.

Oceans away from where we were, a soul that was supposed to be half of me was undergoing their life on a casual daily basis, being clueless about what I was suffering, not even having time to care, not even asking.

A quick stroll away from where we were, someone that had recently been responsible for your constant source of fun—fulfilling part of your appetite I could never afford—was waiting for you to knock on their bedroom door; being clueless about what you were suffering, not even having time to care, not even asking.

And there we were, getting stuck in the same final question as always. And our approach towards it would be you unconsciously staring at my face, which I reply with the exact same of motion; and for seconds we’ll begin to notice again how the freckles in our eyes are mirror images if only we could stand close enough to also notice that they’re perfectly aligned.

And that stops only when one of us giggles, and looks away, and laughs at our constant trait of being silly.

Because our skins don’t even know each other. Unlike yours and hers. Or much fewer parts of mine and his. Our different set of boundaries defines it all.

And you appreciate that, and I appreciate you for appreciating that.

But hey, our eyes.

The only entities that communicate the most when our voices no longer do.

“So what are we going to do now?”

“I don’t honestly know.”

“We never did, do we?”

“We always did. We chose to ignore all the time.”

“Then?”

The guy in the live band sang Transatlanticism in the way we never heard of before, and just like that, we knew the only answer for our ponder rightaway.

To be close, no matter what we are, no matter what we can or cannot do,

or become.

I need you so much closer.

A Conditional Probability

adnabilahLeave a comment

“You’re one in a million kind of soul.”

The kind of compliment that puts your head in the cloud nine,

but not today.

None of us is a scarce entity, nor exceptional. If even each of us were indeed a one-in-a-million kind of soul, with 7.5 billions of individuals we have on Earth right now, we could develop a society consisting of 7,500 human beings of our kind, of souls with mutual similarities.

“I find a better version of myself in you,” you said, to me, or potentially to any other 7,498 humans out there if you happen to come across any of them before meeting me—in the case where you happen to be the worst of this version. Seven point five billions of souls exist today, and really, one in a million kind of soul won’t be my preferrable line of flatteries considering my fancy in anthropology. Who said I feel confident in competing with the other 7,499? A million is merely a faux hypothetical statistic we invent in attempt to tell someone how much we praise them—as if there’s little opportunity for us to meet the other 7,499 people as such.

But there is always such opportunity, isn’t there?

Sometimes given, unanticipatedly.

Just like here, now. And here I am, left alone speculating. Why does the universe drag us into this? Why this rendezvous? Why now, here? Why your pinstripe sweatshirts? Why all obscure movies and historical tell-tales and political quizzes that brought us into endless midnight talks? Why the yellowish skin of yours, and the fuzzy edges of your thick hair, and the light-coloured freckles under your eyes?

Why a whole lot of these and other things that the two of you share in common?

Wouldn’t stand a chance of meeting any other person with such traits and qualities,

unless, probably, if I happen to land on

the other side of the Earth.

Which I did, which led me into this, and I regret having said.

But even if I do, there’s just so little possibility for that person to share a mutual fascination with me;

I mean, what are even the chances?

Yet the answer will surprise me.

It also surprises me how easily things could fall into time and places, without even us planning, without even a single warning, without asking. No matter how cautiously I’ve been acting. When calculations do not make the best sense, yet once I begin to accept that this might be just a cryptically pleasant work of the universe, it becomes slightly digestable that way.

Let your body sink into me

Like your favorite memory

Like a line of poetry

Or a fucking fit of honesty

You know it saves me to think even for a little while

I owned the set of shoulders that you came to rely on

I hear your voice resembling that guy on the radio as I submerge myself in guilt, as I try to sleep the provoking thoughts about the probability of us away.

In case our timing is right

In case you need more from me

Than a bit of advice

Or a tongue full of sympathy

But they reappear—always—with every daybreak, with every crepuscle we endure,

and with all the time in the world that we have.

On the Fence

adnabilahLeave a comment

We could complicate things by simply having the guts to confess to each other that the fondness we find towards each other is mutual. We could perplex the boundary between right or wrong by unwisely choosing to juxtapose our feelings and logic; senses and intuition; chances and risks. We could obliterate the boundaries between us,

faith,

legacy,

concepts,

numbers,

judgment,

reasoning,

abstinence,

discrepancy,

circumstances,

pursuit of settlement,

chastity;

if only we both reckon that this very moment of our intersection exists to be treasured, despite the likelihood of the awry epilogue.

Epiphany

adnabilahLeave a comment

The most genuine smile you had never worn,

until last evening.

And I felt particularly very lucky to have been the addressee.

Our days and nights are replenished with our multifaceted conversations just like usual. Canada’s newly elected national bird, car insurance deals, your brand new pair of masculine espadrilles, Hwang Kyo-ahn, Empire of the Sun’s Two Vines, your new hair dyes in chestnut, and so forth. Although mostly it is me consuming the knowledge you shared, rather than expressing my own opinions or emotions, being the opposite of what you’re always vigorously doing and being utterly good at.

Some days I fear of being the cause of boredom between us—since you’re always the storyteller and never have I ever not been the quiet, yet curious kid with hunger for bedtime stories. It almost feels as if I would someday perfectly remember your voice and every peculiar accent of yours while you might perhaps already forget mine—which I wouldn’t even be surprised about. But the fact that you’re staying, bearing with myself, constantly coming back with new tell-tales every day, delights me. Maybe, you’re in need of a person who would actually believe all the hypothesis that you invent, while I’m simply in need of:

a perpetual supply of your presence.

Either way, we’re symbiotically pleasing each other all along.

Such a sweet companion you are to the desolation that I consciously create around myself. If my lust towards ease is the Yin, you’d be the Yang that balances it with the obscure sort of sparks you offer. Arousing, but sedating at the same time. A panacea pill to my daily dose of anxiety.

And a secret worth holding back. A truth worth never told.

A crave worth never having.

Forbiddance and Fainthearted

adnabilahLeave a comment

Nothing on Earth complements each other’s charm better than my ebony hair and your ivory skin do.

Sometimes, with the slight fragrance of peppermint and a hint of vanilla scent from behind our necks. Your fingertips will then begin to find their way onto my back, fondling my stiff shoulder until I dare myself to lean on yours, slowly and cautiously.

I will then stare at your pale skin with the look of a four-year-old witnessing their first white Christmas of snow flurry. Full of adoration, and just a hint of slight dismay, fear not to have them again.

A little caress here, a little less tense there, then time pauses for us,

as if it offers some momentary interlude for us to dwell within guilt and questions.

For it demands more than mutual devotion for two individuals to cohere,

for it is unattainable to alter the pillars.

For not a single truth about us will ever remain

forever.

Moonlit Midnight of Men Murmuring

adnabilahLeave a comment

1:01 AM and somewhere across her room, someone is responsible for unnecessary assumptions passing into her head.

Why, of all implausible excuses she keeps fabricating by herself, this particular one turns out to be the most provoking?

Observation doesn’t seem to be of any help. She needs to ponder. Deep. Into rooms where perception and feelings are stored for long, for she has always been way too afraid to get close by.

But the answer has always been complicated and difficult, either to translate, or to appreciate.

All she knows that some things linger. And remain. And never escape.

Gentle pats on her head, awkward arms around her, the curly edges of ivory hair blown away by the afternoon breeze,

the fairest colour of skin she has ever witnessed,

all that she saw, all that she felt because.

Slight details she would rather disremember about.

Somewhere across her room, two bodies are inside each other’s, yet it doesn’t scare her. For the only freedom she owns is her own train of thoughts, as her heart is sealed with loyalty, and her body is bounded with promises.

She just believes there’s a space for her,

always. Even between the adhered surfaces of two skins against each other that night.

She’s an remedy he wouldn’t unhand.

Not now.

A Cold Play

adnabilahLeave a comment

Let’s talk about chances. Impossibilities and whatnot, things you considered to be nowhere close to be ever found, truths that you’ve always thought to be way too far-fetched to exist.

Surreal places by the edge of your pleasantest dreams. The fading smell of meadow rue at the tip of your nose. Beautiful souls you never plan to fall for.

Feelings that are disguised in twisted logic.

Ventures not taken, a sudden bump into the most idyllic yet scary truth, unexpected convergence of the most scattered facts,

that particular human,

with all their flaws and appeal comprising the exact opposite of harmony,

but makes you question your loyalty for

a belief you’ve been upholding way too tightly.

Let’s talk about chances not taken. Let’s talk about how we would deal with the consequences of unleashing the untold and then letting loose. Let’s talk about two scientists bearing their senses and trying so very hard not to fear about what has bloomed inside, what has flourished way more than presumed.

Let’s talk about where it hurts like heaven.

Stadiums Shrines

adnabilahLeave a comment

In a world where the fine line between white and black is sometimes undecipherable, there gets to be some time when everything becomes just clear and readable—in absence of the gray or blurred intervals. Spaces between your eyelids and that couple of brownish circles. Silvery dust flowing away from my face every time I breathe. Sheets of papers with your terrible handwriting on them.

Among things that are white, those are the ones I enjoy spending time to look at the most. Where truth be found, and things are absolute, with no transitions. Eyes that don’t hide lies, scattered dots showing where the atmosphere flows, and writings of non-fiction that are disguised in novels or fairy tales. Unlike snows that melt, the walls between our rooms that crack, or the back side of those photographs of your face which eventually turn to yellow.

Somewhere along the fine line, I can see the other side where things are all the contrary. Black, and unlit. Like the total eclipse of your heart before this story comes to life. Or the conservative mind of mine before our lives intersect.

In other word, the past before us.

Poethood

adnabilahLeave a comment

Fireflies between your fingers, flaring, twisting twilight—I am caught in moonlust; eerie lull over my collar, I’m all conquered by the absence of the day.

My syllables are such disarray, that I translate into songs to preserve the thoughts of you—that sickened me last night, tonight, and every night after. I spell your name backwards. There’s teardrop from below. My Sun descends eastward.

Dear Carrie, said Lowell,

There was a history before us, with tales never before told, pieces never before seen. We’d senesce and eventually perish, with our ideas petrified, and our preexistence either forgotten or unfortunately celebrated. But together—you and I—we’d perpetually coexist.

Dear Lowell, Carrie said,

Here I am, unbounded and infinite. Untangled and invincible.

To write or to writhe.